by C. M. Palov
Having been obsessed with revenge, he’d not reckoned for the ensuing guilt that now clung to him like a second skin. Killing his enemy in cold blood was supposed to set him free. But, instead, he discovered that you take everything from a man when you kill him. And he, in turn, steals everything from you. Gin was simply the most expedient means of dulling the pain.
How pathetically trite. A man drowning his sorrows in a bottle of distilled spirits.
Knowing that his battle with the bottle trivialized Juliana’s death, Cædmon ran his thumb over the glass rim, wondering if he should, if he could, pour the remaining contents down the drain. After two years, surely the time had come to put his life in order?
He raised the glass to his lips. Shag it. What was the point? So he could return to the infantile enthusiasm of his youth? At forty years of age, he was too jaded to believe in a Second Coming.
‘Rack and ruin. The measure of this man.’
Hearing a chime emanate from his laptop, Cædmon, glass in hand, wandered into the other room. Curious about his old lover, he first opened the attachment marked ‘Katsumi Rosamund Bauer’. Rosa Mundi. The Rose of the World, as he used to affectionately call her. He quickly scanned the particulars of the dossier. As he neared the bottom, his stomach clenched, horrified to read that two years ago Kate’s infant son had died of SIDS, cot death.
We are kindred after all, Rosa Mundi.
Cædmon opened the next attachment.
‘Shite,’ he muttered, utterly astounded. While the ex-Delta Force commando didn’t fit the typical stereotype of a RIRA terrorist, the connection was there. Even more worrisome, the man was a fugitive from the law, accused of committing two heinous murders.
The skin on the back of his neck prickled, as though a ghost from his old life had just flitted past.
Concerned for Kate’s safety, Cædmon snatched his car keys out of the crystal bowl on top of the cabinet and stuffed them into his trouser pocket. That done, he opened the top drawer and removed a leather holster, quickly strapping it on to his shoulder. Spinning on his heel, he rushed out of the room, grabbing a tweed jacket off the arm of the sofa on his way to the door.
Just you wait, you bloodthirsty Irish bastard.
25
Finn turned the ignition key, the Vespa thrumming to life.
Clambering on to the back of the scooter, Kate adjusted her hips so that she wasn’t pressed so intimately close to Finn’s rear end.
‘Since we can both use some shut eye, as soon as we finish buying the supplies I’ll find us a secure hotel room.’
The offer came as something of a surprise, with Kate beginning to worry that Finn was the product of a clandestine military experiment, reprogrammed to function on little to no sleep.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome, Katie.’ Finn turned his head a few more inches in her direction, his whiskered cheek brushing against the side of her face. ‘Okay. We’re ready for takeoff.’
Warning issued, he steered the Vespa down the rutted alley, merging on to a narrow street jam-packed with parked cars and Greek cafés.
Kate glanced back at L’Equinoxe. At the gently swaying sign emblazoned with The Fool. She’d never dreamed that she’d see Cædmon again, had long since shoved recollections of their time at Oxford to the wayside of her youth. Seeing him after so many years brought it all back. So many endearing memories. The chiaroscuro light and early-morning mist that suffused Oxford. The silliness of trying to learn the meaning of a ‘quid’ and a ‘crisp’. The challenging debates that lasted well into the night. The lazy Sunday afternoon picnics along the River Isis.
Hard now to imagine herself ever being that young. That naive about relationships. About love. Betrayal. The evil that men do.
With a forlorn sigh, Kate leaned her cheek against Finn’s broad back. So strong and dependable. Her bulwark against all that evil. And while Finn McGuire was an unrepentant smart-aleck, he would never harm or demean her in any way.
Maybe her strange attraction to Finn McGuire wasn’t a form of Stockholm Syndrome so much as an actual stirring of the heart. Not only was he a physically fit male, but he was honourable and courageous. And much smarter than he let on. The fact that he didn’t preen or showboat made him even more attractive. Attractive like a standing stone. Or a towering oak tree. Beautiful and solid and wildly primitive.
But he is so not my type.
Having always dated ‘academic’ types, it made Kate think that it might be a case of opposites attracting. Like positive and negative poles on a magnet. Or the Yin and Yang of Chinese –
Finn elbowed her in the ribs. ‘We’ve got a crotch rocket on our six!’
‘What?’ Kate had to screech to be heard over the top of the sudden roar of a loud engine.
‘I’m going to make a sharp left up ahead.’
Uncertain who or what a ‘crotch rocket’ was, Kate tapped him on the shoulder. ‘But, Finn, that’s a one-way street. If you turn left, we’ll be headed in the wrong –’
She grabbed his waist as the scooter suddenly made a very tight turn, the illegal manoeuvre inciting a loud horn blast from a passing motorist. Craning her head, Kate caught sight of a silver motorcycle about thirty yards behind them, its rider decked out in head-to-toe black leather.
Menacing? Yes. Dangerous? She hoped not.
Wrapping her arms around Finn’s torso, Kate clutched her left wrist with her right hand, locking herself into place. Terrified, she couldn’t tell if her heart was beating too fast or too slow.
Finn glanced in the side mirror, his expression grim. ‘Hold on tight,’ he ordered as he opened the throttle, the Vespa quickly picking up speed.
But not enough speed; the motorcycle was no more than fifteen feet behind them. And gaining.
Accelerating, Finn crossed the heavily-trafficked Boulevard Saint Germain to the accompaniment of blaring horns and foul-mouthed yells. Certain they were going to be hit by a delivery truck, its driver wildly gesturing at them, Kate wrapped her arms even tighter around Finn’s waist.
Somehow, miraculously, they crossed the busy thoroughfare without incident.
Glancing behind her, Kate saw that the driver of the hotrod motorcycle had been the recipient of the same miracle.
Directly ahead of them, the view wasn’t much better, a green street-cleaning truck hogging the entire lane. In a manoeuvre Kate didn’t see coming, Finn jumped the kerb to the right of the truck and passed it on the pavement. The motorcycle also jumped the kerb, its front wheel coming off the ground at least two feet as the driver gunned the engine. The sinister theatrics elicited a cacophony of terrified screams, pedestrians running pell-mell to escape the two vehicles.
Seeing a small cluster of people gathered around a vegetable stand, Kate hollered, ‘Watch out!’
‘I know!’ Finn yelled back at her, both of them flinching as someone threw a head of lettuce, the green projectile bouncing off the scooter’s windshield with a resounding thud.
Having successfully navigated around the vegetable stand, Finn took a hard right, narrowly missing a bicyclist. The sudden turn put them on a cobbled street, one of the tiny lanes that made up the labyrinth of pedestrian streets bordering St Séverin Church. Motorized vehicles were forbidden, but Finn clearly didn’t care about Parisian road regulations.
The same could be said of the driver on the motorcycle, Kate glimpsing a silver flash to the rear of them.
‘Oh, God! Don’t hit the pigeons!’ she screamed a few seconds later as they sped down a minuscule street that was little more than a fissure between two adjoining buildings.
Finn shot her a warning glance in the side mirror. Kate didn’t have to be a mind reader to know she’d just been telepathically ordered to ‘Shut up and stop back-seat driving! ’
Moments later, as they passed the Gothic St Séverin, she caught sight of the grotesque stone gargoyles that extended from the gables. For centuries they’d stood sentry high atop St Séverin, keeping evil at bay. She o
ffered up a quick prayer, the silver motorcycle still ‘on their six’.
As they approached the congested Quai St Michel, Kate knew Finn had only one option – turn left or end up in the River Seine. Leaning close as he made the approach, she braced herself for the sharp turn, the Vespa precariously lurching off balance.
Which is when it occurred to her that neither of them wore a helmet. Or any other form of protective clothing.
That realization made her pray all the harder.
No sooner did they make the turn on to Quai St Michel than Finn proceeded to weave in and out of traffic. The silver sports bike zigzagged right along with them, easily keeping pace with their every manoeuvre, the helmeted driver waving at her as she glanced at him over her shoulder.
‘Hasn’t your buddy Aisquith ever heard of a tune-up?’ Finn complained. ‘We’d have more power on a tricycle.’
Evidently their pursuer thought the same thing because suddenly he revved his engine. Where before there had been five feet between them, the distance was now reduced to five inches.
Like a high-speed battering ram, the motorcycle butted the back of the scooter.
‘Finn!’
‘I know! I can’t go any faster!’ he hollered, veering in front of a taxi.
The motorcycle pulled abreast of them.
Which is when Kate saw the driver remove a weapon from his jacket.
‘He has a gun!’ she screamed, every muscle in her body tensed, already anticipating rigor mortis.
What happened next was a visual blur as Finn abruptly swerved to the right on to an exit ramp – an exit ramp that descended to the paved wharf that fronted the Seine. On one side of the pavement there was a two-storey retaining wall that abutted the multi-lane speedway; on the other side was the river.
Finn cut the engine on the Vespa and slammed his booted foot against the kickstand.
‘Get off! Quick! He’ll be here any second!’
Kate did as instructed, offering no resistance when Finn grabbed her by the hand and ran over to the water’s edge. About a hundred yards away a grey-haired man seated in an aluminium deck chair was fishing, a dog asleep at his side. Fifty yards in the other direction were two parked cars, their owners nowhere in sight. For all intents and purposes, they were alone.
‘Okay, it’s show time,’ Finn hissed, jutting his chin towards the silver motorcycle zooming down the concrete ramp. ‘You let me handle this. No interfering. Understood?’ As he spoke, he shoved her behind him, shielding her with his much larger body.
‘What are you going to do?’ Kate asked fearfully, wondering if there was anything he could do.
‘I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do … I am not going to retreat.’ Unzipping the canvas satchel slung across his chest, Finn removed the Montségur Medallion from his bag, the gold disc brightly gleaming in the midday sun.
‘Drop your weapon!’ Finn shouted at the helmeted man on the motorcycle. ‘Or the medallion gets hurled in the river!’
26
‘And just so we’re clear –’ smiling mirthlessly, Finn tossed the Montségur Medallion into the air, catching it in his left hand – ‘this has no value to me whatsoever. One wrong move from you and I will not hesitate to fling it like a damned frisbee into the Seine.’
He hoped to God the bravado worked. If not, they were screwed. Other than the somnolent old man with the hook’n’line dangling in the water, there wasn’t a soul in sight. He and Kate were in the open. Completely exposed. Even the old man wouldn’t know what had happened until all was said and done; the bad guy’s HK semi-automatic had a silencer on the end of it.
Which probably explained why Kate was quaking against his backside.
Or maybe she knew there was one really big chink in his armour – he had no weapon.
In those few seconds before the motorcycle roared on to the wharf, he thought about grabbing the KA-BAR knife. He had a deadly aim and to hell with the legal consequences. He always said he’d rather be tried by twelve than carried by six. But at the last moment something made him reach for the medallion instead. He wasn’t altogether certain why he did it, other than he had a gut feeling it was the better weapon to draw from his holster.
The helmeted rider, his features obscured by the black-tinted face guard, lowered his weapon, setting it on the ground. The bastard then did the unexpected and kicked the damned thing into the Seine, the gun hitting the water with a loud splash.
Cocky motherfucker.
Finn raised a quizzical brow. ‘You know, I was fully expecting you to play a few more hands before folding. You must want this medallion real bad.’ When his adversary made no reply, he said, ‘I’ll take that as a “Yes”. Now that we’ve got that settled, lose the helmet, asshole. I want to see your face. Slowly. No sudden moves or the medallion will end up next to the HK at the bottom of the river.’
Clasping either side of the metallic grey helmet, the other man complied with the request.
The moment the helmet was removed, Finn sucked in a deep breath, completely blown away.
Holy shit!
Unhurriedly, well of aware of the effect, his adversary shook out a mane of long, silver-blonde hair. Hearing Kate’s indrawn breath, Finn could only assume that she was equally stunned to discover that the person standing opposite them was a woman.
Quite possibly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded to know, still getting over the shock.
‘Some call me Angelika; others, the Dark Angel,’ the woman calmly replied in a husky French accent.
The Dark Angel!
Fuck!
Finn glared at the leather-clad assassin. Although sorely tempted to kill the bitch with his bare hands, he’d vowed that Dixie and Johnny K’s murderer would stand trial. That meant he had to have her alive and kicking. She wasn’t worth a damn to him dead.
‘So, which do you prefer … the Dark Angel or Angelika?’
‘I prefer the Dark Angel.’
‘What is that, your alter ego?’
‘Mais, oui. In the war between the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness, the Dark Angel will be triumphant.’
Finn snorted derisively. ‘Thanks, Yoda. So, how about telling me how you tracked us. Hell, we haven’t been in Paris but a few hours.’
‘While you have many skills, you committed a glaring blunder.’
‘Yeah? What was that?’
‘You took Fabius Jutier’s laptop from his embassy office.’ Her lips curled in a gloating smirk. ‘We surmised that you did so in order to mine the computer for information regarding our organization. Information which would have led you directly to our headquarters here in Paris.’
‘I didn’t steal a damned thing,’ Finn said with a shake of the head.
‘There’s no sense lying. The misdeed is done. Since you are a decisive man, we knew that you would go on the offensive. Which is why we’ve been watching the airports and train stations around Paris.’ The smirk morphed into a come-hither smile. ‘If you must know, I had you in my gun sights earlier this morning at Gare du Nord.’
‘Why didn’t you pull the trigger?’
‘Regardless of what you think, the Seven has no desire to see you dead.’ As she spoke, the Dark Angel unzipped the pocket on the left arm of her jacket and removed a box of Lucky Strike cigarettes. ‘If I wanted you dead, I could have killed you at any time.’ She nodded at the Ducati 999R parked a few feet from where she stood. ‘Mine is the more powerful vehicle. It would have been child’s play to have caused a fatal accident.’
‘And the only reason you didn’t mow us over with your Italian crotch rocket is because you had no way of knowing whether or not I had the medallion on me.’ For damn sure, she didn’t spare their lives out of the goodness of her heart.
Opening the box of Lucky Strikes, the Dark Angel removed a gold lighter. She then shook a cigarette loose and extended her arm towards Finn. ‘Fumez-vous? ’ When he shook his head, she lit a c
igarette, throwing her head back as she languidly blew out a perfectly shaped smoke ring.
‘I’m curious: are you just a hired gun or are you a card-carrying member of the Seven?’ he asked, admittedly having a hard time getting a handle on her.
Her brow wrinkled. Either she didn’t understand the question or she was playing dumb.
‘Okay, I’ll put it another way … are you the proud owner of a Black Sun tattoo?’
‘Would you like to see my tattoo?’ Looking like a poster girl for sin city, the blonde started to unzip her Joe Rocket motorcycle jacket.
‘Not especially.’
Affecting a pout, she released the zipper. ‘Perhaps later I could tempt you into taking a peek.’
‘Don’t count on it,’ he snarled, refusing to let himself be affected by his adversary’s beautiful packaging.
Just then, Kate stepped out from behind him, taking up a new position on his left flank. ‘What do you know about the connection between the Black Sun and the Vril force?’ she asked in a quavering voice. Although scared, she didn’t lack for gumption.
‘Ah, le petit souris avec les yeux bleus. Ou peut-être gris.’ Tilting her head to one side, the Dark Angel contemplatively assessed Kate. ‘Blue. Grey. It matters not. To answer your question, little mouse, Vril is the force that allows us to escape the prison of the here and now.’
What the fuck did that mean?
‘Okay, next question: who hired you to kill Dixie and Johnny K?’ Finn asked, steering away from the mumbo-jumbo.
‘I was sent by the Seven Research Foundation.’ She lifted a shoulder in an elegant Gallic shrug. ‘But then you already knew that.’ With an impatient flick of the wrist, the Dark Angel flung her cigarette aside. ‘You do realize, don’t you, that we have a great deal in common?’
